


"It's Okay if it Doesn't Rhyme, Right?"

by cherryblossomphil



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, ft. popstar!Phil and awkward!Dan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:37:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3874144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossomphil/pseuds/cherryblossomphil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU based off the movie “Music and Lyrics”; Phil Lester’s a “has-been” - a jaded popstar slowly fading into obscurity. But when UK’s new princess of pop, Zoella, asks him to write her next single, Phil gets a chance at reinvention. There’s just one problem - he’s never been good at writing lyrics, just the music behind it. Enter Dan Howell, the strange young man who waters his plants and has a way with words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"Hailing from the beautiful countryside of Lancashire, “Orange Excuse” was one of the most defining music groups of the 2000s despite having only a handful of hit singles on the UK charts, with songs like “I Hoped You Would” and “Friday Love” defining an entire generation. But today, they’re best known as Charlie McDonnell’s old group. McDonnell went on to sell millions of solo hits, breaking chart records and taking the music world by storm. But can you remember the name of the other front man of Orange Excuse? What ever happened to Phil Lester?_

_Find out tonight, on Where Are They Now?”_

* * *

“So what do you think, Mr. Lester?”

Phil’s head shoots up, his doodling abandoned in favor of looking at the balding businessman in front of him. He glances at the TV screen on the wall. A giant picture of his face stares back at him, and he jumps.

Phil’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “…sorry, what was the question?” He probably should’ve paid more attention to the video they played, but a clip of his cringe-worthy hairstyle from the early 2000s was enough to make him zone out.

Sighing, the other man looks at his associate sitting across from Phil. She coughs lightly, turning to give him a forced smile. There’s a small streak of lipstick on her teeth. Phil can’t stop staring at it. 

“Mr. Lester, how would you like another chance in the spotlight?” Her grin widens and more lipstick smears against her teeth, the bright redness of it a startling contrast to the faded white. “It’s been a while, but Orange Excuse is still in the minds and hearts of many young adults out there. There’s a new show the works for the BBC, and you’d be perfect for it – think of it as a comeback!” She beams at her associate, who smiles back. Phil wonders if they came up with that title themselves. “We’re hoping it’ll be the next “Strictly Come Dancing”,” she adds. 

Phil looks down at the contract in front of him. It’s covered in drawings, rough outlines of bold letters and fruit; he’d been sketching the old logo of his band instead of watching the tv show promo. The musician bites his lip, tracing the outline of the letter “O” with his finger.

It still seemed like yesterday that he had been touring around the UK with his friends; Orange Excuse began as a pipe dream in Lancashire and grew up to be bigger than anything he or Charlie had dared to imagine. They were an overnight success – UK’s “NSYNC”, as the tabloids had called them. But then Charlie got offered a solo deal, taking his fans and half the songs he and Phil had written with him. And Ben decided he wanted to go to uni, heading up to Manchester the following month. Phil and Dean had talked about finding a new drummer and vocalist, but ultimately the guitarist felt too homesick to stay in the city and was back in Lancashire by the end of the year.

So Phil was left alone in London, thriving off of the residual fame and income left from his glory days and picking up odd gigs here and there to make ends’ meet. He’s not bitter – not anymore, anyway. He knows he should’ve expected it, Charlie’s departure. Timberlake did it. So did Beyoncé. It was only a matter of time. And it’s not like he’s struggling – he’s still getting recognized, still getting gigs like this from the BBC or those “throwback” radio one stations. It’s not as glamorous or exciting as his old life, but it’s an existence Phil’s adjusted to – and at any rate, it pays the bills.

But a comeback? Has it really been that long? He’s only 28; Phil’s always associated comebacks with retired rock stars who have decades of experience, not former teeny-boppers known for a few hit songs before fading into obscurity. Plus, he can’t even remember the last time he performed on tv. Nowadays, he’s more likely to book a high school reunion or subpar charity event. Phil isn’t sure how he feels about being thrust back into the spotlight in that capacity again. 

The prospect of a studio audience is tempting, though. 

“Umm… it sounds… great?” He finally answers, looking up. It’s not like he has anything better to do - it beats sitting around at home playing video games. And PJ had mentioned something about his gig list dwindling.

The producers visibly let out a sigh of relief. Phil feels the atmosphere of the room relax. 

“Wonderful, I’m glad you’re open to the idea.” The woman continues. “Some of the acts we’ve approached have been… uh… less than enthusiastic about being on a show like this. I guess the title’s a bit off-putting – makes them seem like "has-beens", if I’m honest.”

Phil’s not surprised, but the producers are staring at him so earnestly that he raises his eyebrows in faux disbelief. “Wow, really? Huh. Well, it seems fitting to me. I am perfectly fine being called a “has-been”. Honestly, it’s not the worst thing I’ve heard.”

Phil’s always appreciated the term “has-been”. He understands why it might offend some of his colleagues, but in his mind, it’s a badge of honor. It frees him from the expectations of others, makes it known that he used to be somebody, but now anything he’s done that’s worth remembering is all in the past. He’s reached his peak, fulfilled his potential. Did he miss the fame and the fortune? Sure. But that was always more of Charlie’s thing, anyway. It’s for the better that things turned out the way they did. 

“Great!” The balding producer flips open one of the many files laid across the table and slides it over to Phil. “Well, as you can see we’ve already got some other acts on board, so we’ll be setting up a shooting schedule and emailing it to your managers. Look at this amazing line up - 3 of a Kind, Gotye, DJ Pied Piper-“

“Oh, cool, I remember Gotye. Nice guy…” Phil scans the papers in front of him without absorbing a word of information. He’d let PJ sort it all out – that was his job, after all. The musician smiles. He’s excited, for once. Getting to go on live tv, with some of his old friends to do…. something. What exactly was the show about? He peruses through the file, but finds no hints on the actual show. 

“Umm, sorry, just a quick question.” The other two people in the room are discussing something in low tones, but turn to face Phil at the sound of his voice.

“Yes?”

“Err, what exactly will we be doing on the show? I’m a bit… confused. I mean, you probably mentioned it in the video,” Phi backtracks at the look the other two are giving him. “I just, uh, had a bit of trouble understanding.”

“Right,” The businessman replies slowly, cocking an eyebrow. “Well, no worries, it’s quite simple. Basically, each musician will be interviewed and featured to help introduce them to the audiences - there'll probably be a short clip of one of your music videos to showcase your talent. Nothing crazy, just standard "what have you done since we last saw you?' kind of questions - super easy, nothing to be worried about. Then all the acts will be brought out into a field-“

Phil starts. “Wait, what?”

“-where they’ll be blindfolded and let through a maze full of fun surprises using with the help of our live studio audience-“

“Sorry, _what_ ?” Phil holds his hands up in surprise. The other man stops speaking, and both producers look at him in concern. “I- wh- okay, hang on. You’re saying I’m going to be _blindfolded_ , in a _maze_ , with people I either _don’t_ know or haven’t talked to in _years_?” He pauses, shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, it sounds fun… I guess. If you're into that sort of thing. But... isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, odd?” _And dangerous_ , he adds in his head. “And how does that even fit in with the title?”

The woman laughs. “It’s called “Where are They Now”? As in, where in the _maze_ are they now? Get it?” 

They definitely made up that title themselves. Phil’s sure of it.

“…okay, then.” Phil’s starting to rethink agreeing to this, but he's curious now. “So, say I do this. How many songs would each act get to sing per show, exactly? I mean, two songs seems fitting, considering there's the possibility of injury. I’d love to bring back “Friday Love” for the first one, if I can – has a good beat, might get the people moving?” He dances a little in his seat, stopping after the businesswoman gives him the same forced smile from earlier. He fixes his fringe out of embarrassment. 

The other man lets out a short chuckle, glancing over at his associate. “I’m sorry, but… I mean, we can’t really promise any of the acts that they’ll be singing.”

Phil frowns. “Wait, then what’s the point?”

“…It’s a competition, Mr. Lester. Only the first one to get through the maze gets to sing.”

“….huh.”

He really should have paid more attention to that video.

* * *

“Okay, _yes_ it was a stupid pitch. But can you imagine how _fucking funny_ it would be to see you go through a maze?”

Phil rolls his eyes as he shuts his apartment door behind him, barely acknowledging the curly haired man sat on his couch reading a magazine. PJ had been Orange Excuse’s manager since the very beginning, helping them rise to the top and sticking by them as they began to disintegrate. He became Phil’s manager once the group officially disbanded, earning a key to his flat in return. More often than not Phil found him waiting in the lounge, eating his food and watching his tv. He’d be annoyed if he didn’t appreciate PJ’s loyalty. Truth be told, he was the closest thing to a best friend Phil had. Even if his management skills were a bit lacking sometimes. 

“But, seriously, though, mate, sorry about that. I honestly figured you were getting trolled or something. Thought you were being punk'd.” PJ quickly tucks the tabloid under his arm, following his client into the kitchen. Phil glares at him but doesn’t have the heart to put any malice behind it. He knows PJ meant well, and it’s not like being his manager is an easy task. Considering Phil’s “has-been” status and his general lack of desire to do anything, how PJ manages to book him anything is a wonder. The man isn’t paid nearly enough to put up with him. 

“S’fine,” he sighs, grabbing a water bottle from the cupboard. “I mean I’d have no problem with it if we weren’t blindfolded. Bit too much for me, that is.”

PJ nods seriously. “Understandable. Let's leave that kink of yours untouched, alright?" He ducks, laughing, as Phil swats at his head. "Alright look, that was my fault, and I’m sorry, but I’ve got just the thing to make it up to you. Guess what who just called?”

The musician takes a sip. “…the Queen?” 

PJ unfurls the magazine and holds it up. _“Her.”_

A beautiful young woman adorns the cover, decked in a short pink dress and white heels. Bright blue eyes peek up at Phil from underneath lush eyelashes, her pursed mouth forming a perfect pout. He frowns.

“And she is…?”

“Zoey Sugg.” PJ flips through the magazine and places it on the countertop, pushing it towards him. “Stage name: Zoella. Biggest star in the world right now, bigger than Amy Winehouse and the Spice Girls put together. And,” he adds, stabbing his finger on the page. “Guess who she loves and wants to meet?”

Phil quirks an eyebrow, glancing down at the article in front of him. “… the Queen?”

PJ rolls his eyes. “You can’t guess the same thing twice, git. It’s you! She’s a massive Orange Excuse fan - grew up on your music, went to your concerts, the whole nine yards.” He points at his client emphatically. “Do you know what this means?”

“Not really, but I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

The sound of the intercom beeping rings through the hall. Phil sets his bottle down and brushes past PJ. “Hang on, hold that thought…” Reentering the lounge, he clears his throat and pushes the intercom button. “Hello?”

 _“Mr. Lester?”_ The voice of the doorman cackles through the speakers, the feedback making Phil wince. _“I have a Dan here for you?”_

“… That’s odd. I didn’t order a Dan. Who is he?” There’s muffled voices at the other end of the line, and then-

_“Says he’s here to water your plants?”_

Phil pauses. “But Alex is the one who waters my plants.” Alex was a sweet kid, came by every two days to water the various houseplants he’s amassed over the years. Phil racks his brain, trying to remember if she had mentioned anything about being gone, but the static of the speaker quickly pulls him out of his thoughts.

_“Uhh, he’s says he won’t take long and that it’ll only be five minutes and that this is the – okay, he’s already on his way up, sorry!”_

The intercom clicks off. Phil sighs. “Great, thanks.” He turns to turns to see PJ standing behind him, magazine in hand once more. “Anyway, so what’s Zoella got to do with me?“

PJ cocks his head, appraising him. “…Why do you have a plant person?” Phil blinks at him, startled by the change in conversation. “You can’t water them yourself? Why do you even have plants?”

“…because I like them?” Phil replies. He makes his way to the tiny office adjacent to his lounge, knowing that PJ will follow suite. “They’re… I dunno… comforting, I guess? I just never remember to take care of them, so I figured it’d be cheaper to hire someone instead of constantly replacing them when they die.” He sits down at his desk and pulls the magazine from his manager’s grip, flipping back to the article he’d been looking at. 

“I could water your plants, you know.” Behind him, PJ sinks into another chair. “I come over enough, it wouldn’t be that difficult.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Peej, you couldn’t even take care of that old neopet you found in my closet. There’s no way I’m putting you in charge of an actual living creature.”

“Plants are barely creatures,” He hears PJ huff, but the musician isn’t paying attention anymore. Page after page of the magazine is covered in pictures of the same girl, thick mascara and bubblegum lipstick ever present. Zoella’s a massive success, apparently – Phil catches the phrases “princess of pop” and “record-breaking artist” quite a few times during his read-through. The glossiness of the spread makes spots flash before his eyes, and he blinks wearily.

There’s a knock on the door, followed by a ring of the doorbell. The sound pulls Phil from his perusal of the article and he sighs, rising from his seat. “Excuse me.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate his growing headache, Phil strides back into the lounge. He rolls his shoulders achingly and flips his fringe out of his face before pulling open the door to reveal a lanky young man, his eyes wide with apprehension. 

He’s tall – taller than Phil, even – and has the brownest eyes Phil’s ever seen. He’s completely clothed in black, save for the large white outline of a circle on his shirt. Chestnut hair covers his eyes, and he reaches up to push it back in place. The guy is damn attractive, that’s for sure. Phil’s not the kind of guy who focused solely on looks, but he has to admit that his new plant boy is pretty fit.

The musician must’ve been staring too long, because the other man shuffles awkwardly. “Erm…hi, I’m Dan Howell?” He gestures towards himself. 

Phil snaps out of his reverie, shaking his head lightly. “Sorry, hi. Phil Lester.” He sticks out his hand. Dan shakes it gingerly.

“Did Alex not tell you?” Phil raises an eyebrow. “She said she’d call to let you know that I’d be watering your plants for a few days.” 

Now that he’s mentioned it, Phil does recall hearing Alex’s voice on his answering machine the other day. Oh well. “That’s cool, come on in.” He sidesteps out of his doorway, letting Dan through. 

“Thanks,” Dan replies, entering the flat and immediately taking off his jacket. Phil shuts the door, turning to direct his guest towards the kitchen, but the other boy continues speaking. 

“So, I hope you have your own watering can. Alex swore to me that all of her clients did, but the last guy I went to, Mr. Green? _Literally_ eighty years old, oh my god –“ He drops his jacket on top of the piano and fixes his hair once more, scanning the room with interest. Phil discreetly takes the jacket and drapes it over the couch; no one touches his piano but him - It’s a Steinway  & Sons, after all. “He didn’t have his own watering can, so he starts losing his shit and screaming at me for being “unprofessional” and it’s like, dude, calm down, you’re gonna have a stroke…”

Dan continues to ramble as he surveys the flat, taking in the number of plants littered throughout the room. Phil watches him in disbelief; it doesn’t even seem like he’s pausing to breathe, words running together so fast that Dan himself can’t keep up, fumbling over his words for a millisecond before surging on. He’s the most talkative plant guy Phil’s ever met (not that he’s met a lot of plant guys, mind). Glancing to the right, he sees PJ leaning against the doorframe of the office, looking just as perplexed by his new plant waterer. Phil catches his eye and gives him a confused shrug. Maybe he should talk to Alex about choosing a different person to water his plants next time she’s unavailable. 

Phil waits until Dan finally takes a breath before jumping into the conversation. “Um, plant stuff is in the kitchen to your left, and don’t worry – there is a watering can somewhere in there.”

Dan snorts. “Alright, thanks.” Finally catching sight of PJ, the other boy colors and extends his right hand out once more. “Hi, sorry, Dan Howell.”

“PJ Liguori,” he replies, shaking his hand. “I’m Phil’s manager. Nice to meet you.”

Dan nods, looking back and forth between PJ and Phil for a minute. An awkward silence settles between them. He coughs lightly. “So….” He pointed towards the hallway. “I’ll just… um… go get the stuff, then.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Phil scratches the back of his head awkwardly as Dan leaves the room, slightly surprised that his guest hadn’t said anything about him having a manager. He tries not to draw attention to his slight fame, but information like usually caught people’s interest. Phil briefly considers following him - just to make sure he found the supplies, that’s all - but PJ grabs him by the shoulders and steers him back towards the office. 

“So, Zoella.” He shakes Phil excitedly, spinning him around. “How great is that? Can you believe it?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait…” the musician extracts himself from his manager’s grip. “How great is _what_? You haven’t even told me what’s going on!”

PJ gives him a look. “Dude. What's going _on_ is the new face of pop wants to meet you!” He sits back down across from Phil, eyes wide with excitement. “That’s an amazing opportunity! You could reinvent yourself! One picture with her, and people might actually start searching you up on google again!”

“Excuse you, I get searched more than Ben and Dean do.” Phil looks back down at the magazine, Zoella’s piercing gaze making him uncomfortable. “I dunno, Peej. This seems kinda sketchy. Plus I’m _ancient_ compared to her, it'll just be weird.”

“Stop being so dramatic, you’re only, like, what? Five years older?” From his seat, PJ nudges at the back of Phil’s knee. “Come _oooonnnn_ … it’ll be fun! Look, all you’ve gotta do is meet with her, get a couple of group shots, talk about your "craft" or whatever it is you artists do, and maybe something will come of it! Please? I’ll buy you dinner afterwards if you agree to do it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil sees Dan approach one of his cactuses with a watering can. He glances back at the picture of Zoella, before sighing in resignation. “… Fine. But only if we get sushi.”

PJ pumps his fist in the air. “Yes! I knew you’d come around, mate. And this is perfect timing; Zoella’s shooting a video down by the London Eye tonight, we can catch her there.”

The musician whips around to look at him. “Wait, what? Tonight? Peej, I-“ 

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

The loud expletive startles both men, who turn to see Dan sucking at his finger. The front of his shirt is drenched, the watering can lying in a small puddle of water beside the cactus. Phil springs up, concerned. 

“You alright?”

Dan doesn’t reply, eyebrows furrowing together. He pulls his finger out of his mouth. Phil can see a small droplet of blood forming at the tip. 

“Uhhh…” Dan lets out a shaky breath at the sight of it, looking at Phil with an almost panicked expression. “Sorry, um… do you have, like, a plaster, or something? First aid kit, anti-bacterial gel?”

Phil frowns. The guy seems a little too shaken up by a tiny little cactus prick. It’s barely even bleeding. “No, sorry?” he replies, slowly. “I mean, I’ve got, like tissues or something in the bathroom-“ 

Dan blanches. Phil stops talking, the rest of his sentence fading away in his throat. “Shit, sorry, I have to go, then. I’m really sorry, it’s just that I’m not very good with blood? Like, even as a little kid I’d faint whenever I scraped my knee or got a papercut, just seeing it kinda makes me wanna be sick and wow I’m talking way too much now, aren’t I, sorry-“ 

He shuffles to the front door as he jabbers on, hastily grabbing his jacket and stuffing it under his arm. Phil follows, grabbing the watering can off the floor.

“-just gonna go clean this out, don’t want it getting infected.” Dan pauses, his uninjured hand on the doorknob. He turns to face Phil, who gives him a questioning look. “ Umm, I’ll come back and finish tomorrow? Sorry, I’m so sorry, I just need –“ he sighs. “You should really, really get some plasters, man. Anyways, umm, yeah, I’ll just –“ He pulls the door open. “I’m gonna go, I’ll see you tomorrow then, it was nice meeting you.”

And with that, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. 

The flat falls silent. Phil blinks once, then twice, clutching the watering can as if it’s the only proof that that last five minutes of his life weren’t just one of the weird dreams he sometimes had. Turning, he sees PJ leaning against the wall once more. The musician opens his mouth to speak, but finds no words. Instead, he gestures towards the front door.

“What just happened?

PJ shrugs. “This is why you should let me water your plants.”

“Yeah, still gonna pass on that, thanks.” He really needs to have that chat with Alex. Setting the can on the floor, Phil crosses his arms and looked at his manager warily. “Anyway… so tonight. You want to meet Zoella tonight.”

PJ grins. “No time like the present.”

Phil sighs and collapses on the sofa. “Right,” He mutters, closing his eyes.

At least he’s not gonna be blindfolded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Zoella stands up, eyes never leaving Phil’s as she walked towards them. Phil tenses under her gaze, heart beating faster and faster.
> 
> For a girl no taller than his shoulder, Zoella sure is intimidating.

Phil loves living in London.

He doesn’t know how he survived in Lancashire all those years, really. His childhood in the North seemed like a half-forgotten dream most of the time, because he honestly can’t remember what it’s like not being in the beating heart of England.

Charlie used to say that it’s because Phil learned to repress his Lancashire memories, and maybe he was right; Lancashire reminds him of loneliness, of feeling trapped in a sleepy little town that he’d outgrown by his secondary school days. Of nonstop pollen that made his nose stuff up and neighbors that knew everything about him but couldn’t say that they really knew him.

It reminds him of repetition, of going through the motions and constantly wondering if this was all he’d be doing for the rest of his life.

London’s busy, crowded full of people Phil will never know and will never have to know. It’s so noisy that sometimes Phil can’t even hear himself think over the din right outside his window.

London reminds him of the endless possibilities awaiting him and Charlie when they first moved out, living paycheck to paycheck and playing any gig they could book while trying to find a recording studio willing to listen to their demo. It reminds him of the excitement he’d felt when they’d gotten the phone call, of the whirlwind of recording sessions and publicity and instant fame after their first single dropped.

The pure  _atmosphere_  of the city was enough to send electricity through his veins.

God, he  _loves_  London.

He especially loves it at night, when the city lit up like a Christmas tree and the foggy remnants of the earlier morning dissipated into the lively nightlife London was known for.

Phil smiles wistfully as he passed another group of teenagers, no doubt on their way to one of the clubs down the street; he remembers club nights. Hell,he remembers when it was  _his_  music that played during club nights, back when he too still had the energy to stay out past 2am.

He’s getting old.

The lights of the London Eye guides Phil’s way as he follows PJ through the crowd. Zoella’s people had been adamant that they meet that night, so come evening the two of them took the Underground and headed into the city.

“C’mon, this way.” Up ahead, PJ gestures towards a cordoned-off section underneath the Eye.

Dozens of screaming young girls line the barricade; Phil notices that each one of them clutches photos of Zoella almost desperately. He winces at the noise level, flashing the access pass that had been sent him at the cluster of security guards stationed by the entrance before ducking behind them.  

PJ laughs at his expression, slinging an arm over his shoulder and leading him towards a series of tents set up along the river. “You ever miss that part of it? The fans, the screaming, all that? The  _‘Oh my god, Phil, you’re so fit, marry me!’”_

Phil elbows his side in annoyance, but chuckles nonetheless. “Nah, not particularly. Besides, that was always more of Charlie’s deal, wasn’t it? Girls went  _mad_  for him.”

“Only because he did that one Calvin Klein ad!” PJ exclaims, withdrawing his arm and pointing at Phil accusingly. “I told  _you_  to do it with him, but nooo…-”

“As if anyone wanted to see my pasty ass on a  _billboard_! I probably would’ve blinded someone, all that sunlight reflecting off my paleness could take an eye out.”

“You are so dramatic sometimes, has anyone ever told you that?” PJ rolls his eyes as he expresses his annoyance.

Phil ignores him. “So where are we going, exactly?”

A loud voice coming from behind makes them both jump. “Ah- There you two are!”

Phil whips around to see another man approaching them.

His eyebrows shoot up; the guy looks no older than twenty, with messy brow hair blowing in the breeze and a leather necklace hung around his neck. His frayed jeans are  _definitely_  designer, though, and so is the plain white t-shirt he’s wearing - the fit of the fabric is too tailored to be anything but that. Phil’s too busy counting the number of cord bracelets stacked on the guy’s wrists to realize that they’ve come face to face.

He looks up and sees the biggest smirk he’s ever seen.

The man sticks his arm out and pumps PJ’s hand vigorously. “Alfie Deyes, Zoella’s manager.” His accent is so thick that it takes Phil a while to register what’s been said.

 _Manager_?

He glances at PJ, whose navy suit is a stark contrast to the other man’s outfit.  Phil bites the inside of his cheek.  He knew they were old, but they didn’t think they were  _that_  old.  When did he start hanging out with guys who wore suits on a daily basis?

To his credit, PJ doesn’t falter. “PJ Liguori, hello! We spoke on the phone.” He pops the button of his jacket open and nudges Phil inconspicuously, who sticks out his own hand with a jolt.

“Um- hi, I’m-“

“Phil Lester! My man!” Phil stiffens in surprise as Alfie engulfs him in a hug, arms awkwardly hovering above the other man’s back. “Zoella’s told me so much about you; made me listen to Orange Excuse songs for weeks, didn’t she? What’s that one song you guys had – something about a parasite of love, being crazy about someone and all that? God, I can  _never_  remember the name…” Alfie hums a melody in his ear and Phil pulls uncomfortably.

“Umm, yeah, uhh… that’s actually one of Charlie’s songs. So…”

An awkward silence falls over them.

PJ coughs lightly.

Seconds pass, and then Alfie’s letting out a huge belly laugh, catching Phil off-guard. “Oh man,  _you’re right_! That  _was_  Charlie’s song, wasn’t it? Bloody hell, sorry mate. Pretty good song, though, wasn’t it?” He laughs once more and glances at PJ, who gives him a weak chuckle.

“Right, well…” Alfie wipes away a tear and claps his hands together. “Let’s go meet Zoella then, shall we? Follow me, gents.” He turns on his heel and heads towards the tents.

Phil watches him leave before turning to glare at his manager. PJ shrugs his shoulders.

“So we had a rough start. It can only get better now, right?” He grabs Phil by the arm and pulls him forward. “C’mon, Lester!”

The two of them jog ahead to meet up with Alfie, who’s resumed talking as if he didn’t realize their absence.

Phil looks around as he walks, taking in the sheer massiveness of the video shoot. Members of the production crew bustle past him, carrying thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. Dozens of video extras mill about, with even more people appearing seemingly out of thin air. A gigantic spotlight casts a translucent glow on the entire area, but Phil can still see the twinkling lights of the Eye reflecting off of the tents.

Getting access to one of the busiest attractions in London for a shoot like this is difficult.  PJ wasn’t kidding about Zoella’s star power.

Phil’s so distracted by his surroundings that he doesn’t notice they’ve arrived at the biggest tent in the compound. He runs into PJ with an  _oomph_ as Alfie pulls open the curtain and peers inside. “Z?”

No one answers.

A strong aroma of vanilla wafts from within the tent, the scent so sickly sweet and artificial that it makes Phil’s head spin. Alfie pulls back the curtain further and beckons the other two men to enter. “Go on, then.”

PJ shoots Phil a look before ducking inside. After a moment of hesitation, Phil follows.

For a moment, Phil thinks he’s stepped into an alternate universe.

He can hear the hustle and bustle of the city outside, the muted sounds of honking horns and loud voices coming in from the open door, but inside? Inside is…

 _Pink_.

That’s the first word that pops into his mind; pink walls, pink furniture, pink clothes, even pink fluorescent lighting that hurts his eyes and makes him squint. The smell of vanilla is even stronger now that he’s inside, and he sneezes, mumbling out an apology when PJ glares at him.

In the center of the room stands a large group of women. They crowd around a vanity, fussing with makeup supplies and chatting loudly. Phil gulps as they cast furtive glances at him; he imagines this is what it feels like to be offered as a sacrifice.

Alfie pushes past him, clearing his throat. “Z, this is Phil Lester and his manager, PJ Liguori.”

The cluster of women part immediately, grabbing their things and disappearing into the shadows of the tent. Phil blinks.

There’s a tiny little brunette sitting in front of the vanity, face downcast as she looks at her phone. The room is quiet, save for the tap of her fingernails against the screen. Her phone chimes twice and she sighs softly, delicately placing it on the table.

Slowly, the girl raises her head. Bright blue eyes lock with Phil’s own. He raises his hand in a timid wave, then sneezes again.

PJ breaks the silence. “Thank you so much for having us, Ms. Sugg, this is… such an honor.”

She doesn’t answer, never breaking her gaze. Phil holds back another sneeze.

“My girlfriend loves your music.” PJ adds, before pausing. “Well, ex-girlfriend. We broke up. Not because of you, though. It’s a long story.” He clears his throat in embarrassment, and Phil resists the urge to do the same. Coming here was a  _bad_  idea.

Finally, Zoella stands up, eyes never leaving Phil’s as she walked towards them. Phil tenses under her gaze, heart beating faster and faster.

For a girl no taller than his shoulder, Zoella sure is intimidating.

She stops in front of them, standing so close that Phil can count every single one of her false eyelashes. Her eyes flit between him and his manager, glancing over them appraisingly.

Suddenly, she smiles, face lighting up like a child on Christmas day. “Mr. Lester, thank you so much for coming!”

Phil almost collapses in relief. Beside him, PJ exhales heavily.

They hadn’t blown their chance, thank god.

“I’ve been a fan for ages.” Zoella gushes. “Orange Excuse was my  _life_ back when I was younger _._  In fact, your song ‘Take it Easy’ helped me deal with my anxiety issues during secondary school.”

“Really? Wow, that’s-  _wow_.” Phil smiles. “I’m glad we were able to…help you out, then.” This wasn’t turning out as bad as Phil thought it would. The girl seems nice enough, and she clearly has some clout if she was able to commandeer the London Eye for a whole night.

Plus, she’s a fan of Phil. He hasn’t spoken to a proper fan in ages.  

“Oh, where are my manners?” Zoella grabs his hand and pulls him forward. “Sit, sit! Would you like some tea? Darlene just brewed a new batch of vanilla chai.”

So  _that’s_  where the smell is coming from. “Umm, no thanks,” Phil stutters. “I had some tea before I came, so I’m good.”

She leads him to a small sitting area full of pink stools and he sits down uncomfortably; the seat is too low for his height, and his knees press into his chest. PJ drops into the seat beside him with a grunt.

Zoella tuts. “Nonsense. It’s delicious, trust me.”

She glances at Alfie, who nods and walks away.

She sits down across from them and folds her hands together. Light reflects off of her silver nail polish. “When Alfie told me you agreed to meet, I couldn’t believe it. Your music helped me get through some of the hardest times of my life, and I wanted to thank you in person.”

Phil blushes at her words. “I’m sure you could’ve pushed through without us, but thank you for listening. That’s what music is all about, isn’t it? Reaching people?” A small, pink tea cup is pushed into his hand and he jumps, nearly spilling the brown liquid that fills it to the brim. He looks up to see Alfie grinning down at him. “Oh- uh, thanks.”

“ _Exactly_ , yes,” Zoella accepts her own tea cup with a smile. “I feel like so many artists nowadays seem to have forgotten that. I hope that my music is able to give my fans the same uplifting and hopeful feeling that your music gave me.” She sips at her tea lightly before handing it back to Alfie. “So, I assume you’re on board with the idea?”

Phil stares at her blankly. “…Sorry, what?” He glances over at PJ, who is steadily avoiding his gaze.

“Did Mr. Liguori not tell you?” Zoella brushes down her skirt. “Oh no. Well, no worries, we can discuss it now.” She clears her throat and looks up, meeting Phil’s gaze with a smile. “Orange Excuse helped spark my own interest in music, and it’s always been a dream of mine to collaborate with the ones who first inspired me! So I was thinking, with my new tour coming up in a couple of weeks, it might be cool to do a little duet? You know, something fun and easy, a new song for my fans to enjoy?”

It’s the first time Phil’s seen her look unsure all night; Zoella’s eyes are filled with uncertainty, and a lipstick-covered lip is drawn between her teeth.

He thinks back on his meeting from earlier that morning; blindfolded maze running is much less appealing than performing on a stage again. He smiles a little.

“That sounds awesome!” Phil nods, genuinely interested. “I’d love to! There’s actually a few songs I wouldn’t mind polishing up again, it’d be cool to remaster them, give them a fresh sound-“

“Wh- no, no, I think you might’ve misunderstood me,” Zoella laughs lightly. Her nervousness is gone, replaced by the bubbly confidence she had earlier. Phil pauses. “There’s no need to remaster your old songs, Mr. Lester; they’re as perfect as it is. No, I actually want you to write a new song.”

Phil almost drops his tea cup. “Excuse me?“

“You see,” Zoella continues, reaching up to brush her hair back. “I recently broke up with my boyfriend, David. We’d been together for almost  _five months_.” PJ makes a noise of sympathy. Phil glares at him. “It was absolutely awful, one of the worst moments of my life, to be honest. But then Alfie here-” The man steps forward, placing a hand on Zoella’s shoulder with a smile. “-he showed me that sometimes love can be found in the most unexpected places, with the most unexpected people.” She laughs, lacing their fingers together.

Phil stares at them. “…That’s great. And I’m happy for you, but-“

“So that’s what the song will be about,” Zoella adds, looking back at him. “Love lost, and love found. Heartbreak, and happiness. And in two weeks, when I open my tour at the Royal Albert Hall, we’ll perform it together!” She claps her hands excitedly. “Doesn’t that sound  _fun_?”

Phil pales. He didn’t sign up for this. “Umm,” He squeaks, clearing his throat. “Um, okay, while that sounds  _great-_  “

“We’re also hoping to put it on her new album that drops right before the tour starts,” Alfie interrupts, cocking his head. “You know, so people are familiar with it already, yeah? So we’re gonna need the song by Friday.”

Phil’s heart stops. “Wha- you’re talking about  _this_  Friday?”

Zoella nods vigorously, hair bouncing.  “But no pressure!” She holds her hands up cautiously. “We knew that this was all a bit last minute, so we’ve got some other artists working on a new song as well-“

“So if you blow it,” Alfie finishes, “No big deal- we’re covered.”  

“Oh, don’t worry,” PJ pipes up from his seat, leaning forward to extend his arm. “We’ve got this. You’ll have your song by Friday, and it’ll be a hit, too. You’ve got my word.” Alfie laughs his big belly laugh once more and reaches out to shake PJ’s hand.

Phil watches the handshake in slow motion; he feels lightheaded.

A new song? In less than a week’s time? He hadn’t written anything new since Orange Excuse disbanded. He  _couldn’t_ write – not without Charlie, who’d been his lyricist since they were  _fifteen_.

Zoella must’ve sensed his panic, because she reaches out to grab his knee reassuringly. “Mr. Lester,” she smiles. “I know you can do this. You’ve been my idol since I was twelve. There’s  _no way_  you can mess this up, right? I’m counting on you.”

Phil exhales shakily, bringing the tea cup to his lips. The liquid scalds the back of his throat as it goes down, vanilla overwhelming his senses.

_He’s absolutely screwed._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bloody hell, Peej, couldn’t even mention it in passing, could you? ‘Oh, by the way, Phil, Zoella’s hell-bent on having you write a song for her in six days so make sure you don’t look like an idiot when she mentions it.’ A heads-up would’ve been really fucking nice!”

“You’re fired. I’m not even kidding this time - effective immediately. Give me my key back.”

PJ rolls his eyes, looking up from his phone.

Phil’s slumped in the seat beside him, head in hands. The tube jolts to a stop and a gust of wind ruffles his hair as more people shove into the car. Phil doesn’t even bother fixing his fringe.

PJ sighs. “You’re being dramatic. It doesn’t suit you. And I’m starving, are you sure you don’t want to go get sushi? I did promise, after all.“

The musician’s head whips up, eyes narrowed. “No thanks, it seems like I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. Hmm, wonder why? Maybe it’s because I’m too busy trying not to have a heart attack _in the middle of the Underground!_ How could you not tell me that Zoella wanted to collaborate?! And on a _new_ song, no less! Bloody hell, Peej, couldn’t even mention it in passing, could you? _‘Oh, by the way, Phil, Zoella’s hell-bent on having you write a song for her in six days so make sure you don’t look like an idiot when she mentions it.’_ A heads-up would’ve been _really fucking nice_!”

The woman sat on the other side of the compartment eyes them wearily. PJ gives her a tight smile before turning to glare at Phil. “Swearing doesn’t become you, either.”

“Well being a massive twat isn’t usually your best look, but you’re pulling it off marvelously right now.”

PJ gasps, placing a hand on his chest. “You wound me, Phil. I thought we were friends.” He loops an arm around the other boy’s shoulders and squeezes gently. “Look, I really am sorry.”

The other boy scoffs and shrugs his arm off, so he drapes it across the back of his seat instead.

“Okay, fine. _Yes_ , I should’ve warned you and _yes_ ¸ you have every reason to be mad at me, but can I be honest with you?”

Phil blinks at him. “No, of course not. You’re my manager, I’d have to fire you immediately.”

“You already did, remember?”

Phil groans, burying his face in his hands once more.

PJ shifts closer, pocketing his phone to give his client his full attention. “Okay, listen. We _need_ this. _You_ need this. No one’s willing to pay for some washed-up pop star with a 5 o’clock shadow when they can hire some punkass fifteen year-old up-and-comer from Leeds for half the price.”

When Phil doesn’t answer, PJ presses on.

“Look, it’s been five years since Orange Excuse broke up. Five years of us trying to make ends meet and stay afloat. You know how this industry works – once you’re in, there’s no turning back. You gotta stay relevant or you’ll get drowned out.”

Phil chuckles mirthlessly as the tube screeches to another stop. He watches as swarms of people push past them towards the exit. “Now look who’s being dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic. I’m being serious.”

The tube falls eerily quiet, empty save for a handful of people sat down towards the end. Phil turns back towards PJ, caught off-guard by the solemn look on his friend’s face.

His manager exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Here’s the deal. You’ve got three gigs left after tomorrow’s show –“

“You mean four.”

“…No, I mean three.”

Phil cocks his head, confused.

PJ sighs. “Sheffield canceled.”

Phil gapes at him as they barrel down the Underground once more. “Sheffield _canceled_?” The Sheffield Music Festival had been his biggest gig for the past three years. “Wha- When? How?”

“I found out last night,” PJ admits, scratching the back of his neck. “I was gonna tell you over dinner, but…”

He trails off at the sight of Phil’s face. He’s paler than usual, eyes wide and worried. Long fingers dig into the sides of his seat, and his breathing is slowly getting more erratic.

PJ curses under his breath and pats him on the back soothingly. “Okay, look, we still have the Manchester Charity gig, okay? And the Oakham Fair is a go… but the thing at Bristol fell through, and Cambridge Arts only wants three nights instead of five.”

Phil groans lowly, leaning back until his head hits the glass window behind him with a solid _thunk_. He can’t breathe. The air inside the car suddenly feels 150 degrees hotter, but he can feel his hands trembling. He sees PJ’s lips moving but there’s nothing but white noise and the sound of his own heart beating much too loud.

His mouth goes dry. “Oh my god…. That’s it, I’m dead. I’m finished- “

“You’re not finished-“

“-completely irrelevant now-“

“We can turn things around-“

“-gonna end up doing stag dos and bar mitzvahs-“

“Don’t be stupid,” PJ huffs. “Thirteen year-olds have no idea who you are.”

Phil glares at him. “Gee, thanks.” He sits up suddenly, almost toppling over in his haste. “What am I gonna do? Why didn’t you tell me any of this earlier, we could’ve done something! I could’ve signed on for that stupid maze show, I could’ve-“

PJ shakes him by the shoulder and Phil takes a shuddering breath. “Calm down, okay? This is what I’ve been trying to tell you all night. I’m fixing it. This Zoella thing? _That’s_ fixing it. There’s plenty of old acts coming back this year; Madonna’s recording again, New Kids, there’s even talks about a Spice Girl reunion!”

He shoves a finger into Phil’s chest. “One song with Zoella and you’ll be back on top. _Then_ we’ll get Sheffield. _Then_ we’ll get Bristol. Fucking hell, we might even get _Reading_!”

Phil leans back again, wary. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Liguori. I’m very vulnerable right now.” He sighs, folding his arms across his chest. “Ugh… I don’t know. It’s been ages since I’ve written anything, Peej. Not since the split. Plus,” he gives a pointed look to PJ, who raises an eyebrow. “I’d need a lyricist. I can’t write without one, and it’s never worked with anyone but Charlie, so we might as well not even try.”

He closes his eyes stubbornly, hoping PJ will drop the matter. Instead, he hears his manager tut under his breath.

“I’m amazed you made it this far in the business with an attitude like that.” There’s the sound of fabric rustling and a phone being unlocked. “Luckily for you, I’ve got a few connections. There’s this guy – open your eyes, c’mon-“

The tube stops once more as Phil blinks open, swishing his fringe back into place as PJ hastily shoves the phone in front of his face. “His name is Chris Kendall. Super in-demand right now, one of the best in the business. He worked with _Little Mix_ , dude.”

“Little _who_?”

“You’re hopeless. And this is my stop.” He checks his phone once more before pocketing it. “Okay, I’ve already talked to his people, so he’s coming over to your place tomorrow morning. 9am.”

“ _What_?!” Phil jumps up, shocked. “Peej, you can’t-“

“I can. Because I’m your manager and you’ll thank me later. Trust me.”

Phil groans. He didn’t sign up for this. All he wanted was a quick little meeting, followed by salmon rolls and green tea. Now he’s got a massive deadline looming over him, the faint smell of artificial vanilla all over his clothes, and an ungodly wake-time.

“Great. Just great. Anything else you wanna add? Y’know, since you _never tell me anything_?”

PJ smirks at him. “Your fly’s undone.”

Phil glances down hastily as the other man laughs, heading towards the exit. “See you tomorrow!”

The musician curses, scrambling for his zipper. “You still owe me sushi!”

“Write me a song first!”

Outside on the platform, PJ turns to wave. Phil flips him off indignantly then grabs at the railing as the tube takes off once more.

Fuck PJ.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plant waterer only chuckles nervously, raising his hands in defense. “Dude. Relax. I’m just here for the plants, okay?”
> 
> “And you’re doing a great job with it,” Phil agrees quickly, “Really, you are. Although,” he adds, as Dan turned his attention to another plant. “That one’s plastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to @phanwich for beta-ing this at the last minute (and on her birthday too bless her) ALSO the song lyrics used in this chapter are from the actual movie “music and lyrics” bc i’m a shit song writer. soz.

No, seriously. _Fuck_ PJ.

Phil groans, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the piano keys. A chromatic drone echoes loudly through the lounge and he sits back up, rubbing his eyes.

“Ugh… I’m sorry.” He rolls his shoulders back, wincing as the joints crack. “I’m so sorry, I’m just... just a bit lost here.”

“Well, that’s not my problem, now, is it?”                                                                 

Phil resists the urge to roll his eyes.

PJ must’ve gotten his times mixed up; Chris Kendall didn’t arrive until 10:30 that morning, banging on the door and shoving a notebook full of song lyrics at Phil before collapsing on the sofa. He’s no taller than Phil is; built similarly, with a slight bowl cut he keeps impatiently shaking out of his eyes like a wet dog - an action so reminiscent of Dean that Phil found himself struck by a sudden wave of nostalgia for his days of songwriting with his friends until Chris told him to get on with it.

The standard offer of tea and biscuits was turned down, leaving Phil to flounder around awkwardly before deciding that the faster they finished the song, the sooner Chris would leave and he could go back to bed. Unfortunately, he’s having enough trouble playing simple chord structures, let alone trying to invent a new melodic line.

The steadfast glare Chris keeps giving him isn’t helping, either. “Look, if the lyrics are too complicated for you, then just tell me.”

“No, no,” Phil replies quickly. “The lyrics are fine, they’re very… very…”

He glances at the notepad in front of him. Lying was never his strong suite.

From the couch, Chris huffs in annoyance. “Well, then, off-brand Jedward, why don’t _you_ think of something? Hmm? Something fun. Catchy. Because _you’d_ know what’s popular now, right?”

There’s a knock on the door, and Phil jumps at the welcome distraction. “Just hold that… thinly veiled insult for a moment.”

He hurries to the door, yanking it open.

Standing outside, once again completely dressed in black, is the stranger he met yesterday. Dan. There’s a sheepish look on his face and he blushes, reaching up to adjust his fringe.

A purple plaster wrapped around his finger catches Phil’s eye, and he grins before he can stop himself.

“Hey!” He chuckles, pointing at the band aid. “I see you managed to survive Winston’s deadly attack.”

Dan looks away, pink in the face. “So, I _might_ have overreacted a bit.” Phil steps aside, and he walks through the doorway. “Sorry, it’s just I absolutely _hate_ infections and – wait, _Winston_?”

Now it’s Phil’s turn to blush. “…err, yeah.  Winston. The cactus.”

Dan pauses. “... of course you’d name your houseplants. Jesus.” But he’s laughing, shaking his head as he takes off his jacket. He moves to place it on the piano but Phil ducks under his arm and grabs it, hanging it on the coat hook behind the door.

Phil turns to see Dan staring at him, a strange smile on his face. He opens his mouth, but another voice cuts through the room.

“Excuse me?”

Chris glares at them through his fringe, annoyed. Phil reminds himself – yet again - to have a stern talk with PJ about the kinds of people that were acceptable to invite over to his flat.

Dan chuckles nervously. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. Hi, I’m Dan. Howell. Dan Howell.” He reaches his hand out, lowering it once more at the curt nod Chris gives.

Dan looks at Phil.

“Oh, sorry, yeah.” Phil clears his throat. “Uh, this is Chris Kendall. Colleague of mine – lyricist.” He makes his way back towards the piano. “Chris, Dan. Dan, Chris.”

He waits for Chris to respond, eyes flicking between his two guests.

Chris stares blankly at Dan, slowly giving him the once-over. Awkward silence fills the air.

“…Um.” Dan rocks back and forth on his heels, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well. It was nice to meet you, and I can tell you guys are busy so…I’ll just… go get the plant stuff, then… okay.” He turns, shooting Phil a pointed glance as he made his way towards the kitchen.

Phil raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement before bringing his hands together to crack his knuckles. “Okay,” he sighs, turning back towards the note pad. “Back to business. What if we-“

“He’s kinda hot.”

Phil pauses, looking up.

Chris is staring at the kitchen door, bottom lip between his teeth. Phil feels icky just looking at him. “Um. Okay.”

The lyricist glances at him. “He’s coming back in here, yeah?”

Phil blinks. He has less than a week to compose a song so brilliant, it beats whatever pieces the other has-beens Zoella contacted had written, and now his lyricist is perving on his plant guy.  PJ is _definitely_ getting his key privileges provoked.

“Err, yeah, I would imagine so. Unless he escapes down the garbage disposal,” Phil clears his throat, hands hovering over the piano keys. “Anyway. How about…”

A D-major chord rings through the lounge.  Phil glances at the scribbled lyrics in front of him. “ _Give it up, I’m a bad hot witch. I look real good, but I’m a nasty bitch…”_

In his peripheral, he sees Dan re-enter the living room, watering can in hand. The brunette’s eyes widen at the vulgarity of the sentence, and if the ground beneath him suddenly opened up to reveal the depths of Hell itself, Phil would’ve gladly swan-dove in. Instead, he changes chords and continues, ears burning as the other man make his way towards the window sill. “ _I can scream and claw, and curdle your blood, but you’ll die on your way…back into love._ ”

Not Phil’s best work. But honestly, with lyrics like that, who could blame him?

Apparently, Chris could.

“The _fuck_ was that?” He moves to stand behind Phil at the piano. “Start on a minor sixth, then modulate up.”

“Umm… right, okay…so…“ Phil repositions his hands and presses down. The dissonance of the chord sets his teeth on edge. “ _Give it up, I’m a bad hot witch. I look real good, but I’m a ­_ –“

Christ groans. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”  

Phil sighs, running a hand over his face.

There’s a reason he’d stopped writing music after Charlie left; nothing ever turned out quite as good as the stuff they had written together during their glory days. He couldn’t explain it. He just _got_ Charlie – got what he was trying to say, what emotions he was attempting to convey through his words. And Charlie understood Phil’s strengths, his talent for interweaving simple harmonic lines to create one complex melody that got stuck in your head for weeks. No matter how many lyricists PJ touted out, Phil never got that same feeling of cohesiveness with any of them – especially those who showed up at 10:30 in the morning and expected him to put music to drivel like this.

Phil wants nothing more than to shove Chris and his bloody notebook out of his flat, but Zoella’s impossible deadline rings through his mind like a badly-tuned piano, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. Time to take the high road. “I’m sorry, I’m just not sure exactly what you’re trying to say here –“

Chris jabs a finger at the notepad, and Phil jolts back. “Okay, first line – ‘give it up, I’m a bad hot witch’. It’s clear. It’s _obvious_. But _then_ it should be-“

“ _But with some magic, I just might switch_ …”

The two men freeze. Phil glances at the window.

Dan stands with his back towards them, pouring water on one of the potted ferns and humming quietly.

“Umm…. Sorry,” Phil starts. “Dan? Did you say something?”

Dan’s posture grows rigid. He turns around. “…Uh. Nope. Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Phil frowns. “No, no, no,” he insists. “What did you… I think it was ‘but with some magic… I just might switch.’”

He cocks his head, looking back at Chris. “That’s not bad, actually. S’kinda cute.”

Chris huffs. “That’s not my lyric.”

Phil actually does roll his eyes, then. “Well, _yeah_ , but it’s a still a nice –“

“Look,” The lyricist grabs his notepad, shoving it under his arm. “I don’t have time for this. Okay? I’ve worked with some of the biggest stars in the business. I have Cher Lloyd on speed dial. I got bagels with Perrie Edwards the morning after she broke up with Zayn. But _sure_ , why don’t you just let-“ He gestures wildly at Dan, “- _Plant_ _Boy_ finish the rest of the song.”

From his spot by the window, Dan cocks an eyebrow. “Plant boy.”

“Go on, then. Finish it.” Chris folds his arms. “ _’Give it up. I’m a bad hot witch. But with some magic, I just might switch._ ’ Finish it.”

Dan visibly gulps.

Phil opens his mouth to protest but shuts it quickly, finding himself at a loss for words. To be honest, he’s kind of interested to see what Dan has to say.

The plant waterer only chuckles nervously, raising his hands in defense. “Dude. Relax. I’m just here for the plants, okay?”

“And you’re doing a great job with it,” Phil agrees quickly, “Really, you are. Although,” he adds, as Dan turned his attention to another plant. “That one’s plastic.”

“Wha –Oh!” Water sloshes out of the can as Dan pulls back hastily. He glances at Phil, cheeks pinker than the fake hydrangeas on the window ledge.

Phil finds it the tiniest bit endearing.

Chris scoffs. “Jesus Christ…” He stalks over to the couch and grabs his backpack, yanking it open to shove his notepad inside.

Phil sighs, rubbing his temple. “Chris, c’mon…”

“Wait!”

Suddenly Dan’s beside him, plants momentarily forgotten. “Um… umm…” His brows furrow. “ _Let’s fly my broom to the stars above, and we’ll_ -” The brunet bites the inside of his cheek, trying to find the perfect word. “We’ll… we’ll… ‘ _We’ll_ _charm our way back into love.’_ ”

He looks at Phil, eyes wide.

Phil looks at Chris.

The lyricist stares at them, deadpan. “What the next line?” he sneers. “ _Mmmbop?”_

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Chris pushes past Dan and heads towards the door. He yanks it open, pausing to glance back at Phil. “Good luck on that song, mate. Can’t wait to see what you two freaks can come up with.”

The door slams shut.

Immediately, Dan turns bright red. “ _Fuck_ , I’m so sorry. I never should’ve gotten involved, I literally have no filtering system, Jesus…” He rushes back towards the plants, hastily picking up the watering supplies he had discarded.

“What?” Phil starts, rising from the piano. “No, no, it’s fine. Honestly.”

Never mind Chris. He couldn’t care less about him. What he really cared about was getting this song done.

“Hey, listen…” Phil pauses, searching for words. “So… uh… do you… write… often?”

(He mentally punches himself in the face. Smooth, Phil.)

Dan glances at him on his way to the kitchen, confused. “Um. I guess? I mean, I wouldn’t say _often_ – wait, well, I guess, yeah, since I write every day, but then again who doesn’t, you know? But what I mean is, I write slogans for Sprinkle of Glitter every now and then. It’s this clothing store – slash – personal stylist business my sister runs.”

Phil nods, leaning against the piano as the other man disappeared down the hallway.

Dan’s good – and if that impromptu lyric he came up with is anything to go by, Dan is _really_ good.

That’s what Phil needs right now; someone who can spit out a catchy phrase in minutes if he wants to get this song done by Friday.

He bites his lip. “Hey, uh… Do you remember that old band, Orange Excuse?”

“ _Pfft,_ oh my god, yeah!” Dan’s laugh rings through the flat. Phil hears him making his way back to the lounge. “Jesus, that was _ages_ ago. My sister Louise was absolutely mental for them; they had that ridiculous fringe and those bloody tracksuits and _oh my god you’re one of them_.”

The musician smiles ruefully as Dan re-enters the living room; the brunet’s eyes grow comically wide as  he finally takes in the framed plaques and pictures hung on walls – gifts from the record label PJ had taken upon himself to put up.

“I happened to like that fringe; thought it made me look fit.”

Dan covers his mouth in shock. “Holy shit. I’m so-”

Phil waves him off. “Don’t worry about it. Listen –” He moves to stand in front of Dan, crossing his arms. “I have this song I need to write by Friday – _super_ important, _super_ urgent. Probably the only thing that can save my career at the point, if I’m being honest with myself. _But,_ lyrics were never really my thing, and you saw how well it worked out with that Gerard Way wannabe earlier, so I could definitely use some help. ”

Phil stops for breath, looking at Dan hopefully. “You in?”

Dan stares at him. “Wait – what?” He blinks. “You want _me_ to write a song with you. I’ve never even written lyrics before!”

“Perfect time to start?”

Dan blanches, moving past Phil to grab his jacket. “Yeah, umm. No thanks. I’m honored, really, but-“

Phil jumps in front of him, arms flailing against the door. “We could just toss some ideas around, then? Maybe? I mean, that line you came up with earlier was _brilliant_! ” The desperation in his voice makes him wince, but this song thing was (literally) not starting off on a good note, and the clock was ticking. “C’mon, just a few lines or so. You can even repot the ficus while you’re here! Alex keeps going on about how she needs to do that.”

Dan’s eyes dart back and forth as he fakes a laugh. “I appreciate the offer, man, but I can’t, I’m sorry.” He yanks the doorknob and pulls it open, knocking Phil off-balance. “See you tomorrow!”

Phil catches himself on the couch and sighs. He can hear Dan’s footsteps echo down the hallway.

The musician groans, pulling himself up and running out the door. He’s not gonna give up that easily.

* * *

 

Phil catches him by the elevators, pushing the down button over and over again. He jogs down the hallway.

“Do you know who Zoella is?” He pants.

Dan yelps in surprise, staring at him incredulously. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Zoella!” Phil clutches at his side. He needs to go back to the gym. “Popstar. Tiny.  Blonde. Surprisingly intimidating.”

“I… yeah?” Dan replies. “My niece loves her. Why?”

“Well,” Phil pauses to catch his breath. “That song I’m writing? It’s for her.”

Dan raises an eyebrow. “That’s a bit creepy, ngl.”

Phil winces. “Not _for_ her, like in a weird way. She requested a song. From me.  Anyway, _if_ you change your mind, and if the idea of working with me becomes any more appealing than it seems right now, then please call me, okay? Please. I need this thing done by Friday, and frankly,” he huffs out a tense chuckle as the elevator dings. “I’m just a little stressed out about it. Just a little bit. So call me, yeah?”

The elevator doors open. Dan nods uncertainly. “Um. Sure.”

“And I’m performing tonight, by the way!” Phil adds as Dan steps into the lift. “At the Hilton downtown. 8pm. You should come! I mean… if you wanna.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous. What the hell is wrong with him?

Dan flushes. “Uh, okay, thanks, I guess. I mean, I can’t, but thanks any-”

The doors slide shut, cutting Dan off mid-apology. The last thing Phil hears is a muffled ‘thank you for the offer!’ before the lift begins to move.

He leans his head against the elevator doors and groans.

Back to square one.


End file.
